Guess that makes you lucky, then
Chapter four
Penny
“You could try Neverland.” The lady serving me, whose name I’ve just learned is Rose, thanks to the firefighter crew behind me, wipes her hands on a tea towel as she leans against the counter.
“They’re usually looking for extra staff, especially when they’re heading into spring. Bit more evening work, though.”
Evening work.
I nod like that’s a manageable solution for me, even though my stomach dips a fraction at the thought.
“The bar down the road?”
“That’s the one.”
“Right,” I say, nodding again. “Yeah. I can do bar work. I mean, I’ve never actually mixed a proper cocktail, but how hard can it be, right?”
Rose’s mouth twitches, choosing not to comment on that.
“Gwen runs the place,” she adds. “Tell her I sent you.”
“Gwen,” I repeat softly. “Okay. Thank you.”
I glance back down at the cabinet again, at the rows of baked goods sitting there like they haven’t just witnessed a very polite discussion about my dire mixology skills.
“Okay,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else. “Decision time.”
Because if I’m going to be unemployed, I might as well be holding something with a lot of calories.
My eyes land on the cinnamon rolls, looking outrageously fluffy and soft and doused in icing. My finger hovers for a second before I commit and point to the largest one.
“I’ll take a cinnamon roll, please.”
There’s movement behind me, a sharp shift of weight and an intake of breath.
“Whoa. Hang on.”
I glance back automatically at the group of firefighters. The tall one with a mustache is leaning in slightly to the side, trying to get a clear view past my shoulder. His brow furrows as he counts.
“How many are left?”
I blink and follow his line of sight again. “Two?”
“Two,” he repeats, stepping closer to the glass. “That’s… Two’s tight.”
“It’s fine,” one of the tallest guys says from behind him.
“It’s not fine, Ghost. This is a fragile situation.”
“They’re pastries, Mason. Not national reserves.”
“They’re limited resources, and soon there’ll only be one.”
I bite down on the smile threatening to break loose and turn back toward the counter, but not fully.
“They look pretty stable to me,” I offer.
His eyes dart to mine, and he opens his mouth to reply, but then a sudden wave of realization passes over his face, and he abruptly turns to the rest of the men. “Who else was thinking about getting one?”
“I wasn’t,” says the dark blonde guy behind him.
“You were! I saw you eyeing them up—that’s proximity intent.”
“Fletch, that’s not a thing.”
“It is today, Prince.”
My brows lift slightly as I watch the four of them bicker like a group of brothers, and Rose mutters something under her breath.
I turn to her quietly. “Are they always like this?”
She nods. “Every single day.”
“Well,” I say, turning back to them and lifting my hand to interrupt. “I don’t think I could, in good conscience, deprive a man in uniform of baked goods.”
The one called Mason straightens, suddenly aware of his dramatics. “This isn’t charity.”
I bite my lip. “It feels like it might be.”
“It’s about sugar and calories. I need them to function in highly stressful situat—”
“Take it.”
The calm, level voice comes from just behind Mason, and I tilt my head to see around him. It's the one with dark blonde tousled hair, and his expression is set in a way that suggests he is deeply unimpressed to be participating in pastry negotiations.
His fire department T-shirt is pulled tight across his shoulders and tucked into his dark blue duty pants, but it’s his arms that draw my attention as he folds them across his chest.
He nods toward the two cinnamon buns left in the cabinet.
“Take what you want,” he adds again. “He’ll survive.”
Mason gestures wildly. “You can’t just override the process!”
“There is no process,” he replies.
There’s something about him, the way he seems so unbothered and unshakeable, that makes me want to test how far I can push him. Which is a ridiculous notion, because I don’t even know this guy.
My mouth tugs before I can stop it, and I lift my shoulder. “Bold of you to assume I wasn’t going to take it.”
Hazel eyes lift to mine. It’s direct but brief, and I can almost feel the pull of them dragging over my face, assessing without being intrusive.
“Then don’t hesitate.”
“I won’t,” I say, turning back toward Rose with a playful sniff and placing my cash on the counter. “And I’ll grab a latte as well, please Rose… to accompany the cinnamon bun.”
Behind me, Mason exhales loudly, and someone tells him to get a grip. I stifle my laugh, and Rose rolls her eyes, turning to a young employee.
“Rory, love—latte, please.”
An ash-blonde teenage girl behind the machine nods and gets to work, and I shift into a barstool at the counter, watching her make it.
Rose’s gaze sweeps back over to the firemen in a way that feels more like a headcount than anything else. Satisfied, she reaches for a cup without asking.
“Same as usual?”
“Yeah,” the clean-shaven one says, stepping up. “And whatever’s fresh outta the oven.”
“Oh, Colt—I saw Remi earlier,” Rose adds over her shoulder as she turns to start packing the order. “Took half the cabinet with her. Thought I was going to have to start rationing.”
“Ahh, must be picking up supplies for her mom group,” he replies.
Rose snorts. “That’s what they’re callin’ it?”
“That’s what she’s calling it,” he says. “I call it a yap session disguised as a playdate.”
“Smart woman, your wife.”
“Terrifying.”
My eyes coast over the firefighter who’s now grinning at the mention of Remi, and I realize this guy—Colt—must be her husband.
I open my mouth to tell him how lovely his wife is after meeting her earlier, but Rose beats me to it, this time directing her question toward the grumpy dark-blonde from earlier.
“And where’s Miss Mabel these days, Evan?”
“Gone back to Toronto,” he replies. “Left during winter break.”
“That’s a shame. She was lovely.”
“Yeah.”
“You find someone else yet?”
“Workin’ on it.”
He doesn’t sound convinced.
Mason, clearly recovered from the cinnamon bun betrayal, leans against the counter to stage-whisper. “We’re building him a questionnaire.”
Rose pauses mid-pour. “That sounds concerning.”
“It’s comprehensive,” he replies. “Personality-based.”
“And I’m absolutely not using it,” mutters Evan.
Rory sets my coffee down in front of me, and I thank her with a nod, wrapping my hands around it straight away and letting the heat sink into my fingers.
Mason keeps going. “We’ve got a strong working theory that your Spice Girls preference tells you everything you need to know about a person.”
I pause mid-sip.
Oh no. This is definitely my kind of conversation.
Rose blinks, and I keep my attention on my coffee, as though that’s going to stop me from inserting myself into a very pertinent pop-culture discussion that has absolutely nothing to do with me.
“Depends which one you pick,” I murmur, raising my coffee to my lips.
Their collective gaze swings to me, and a soft sound escapes me before I can stop it. Slowly, I place my coffee back down and consider reading every single word on the menu in front of me instead of making eye contact.
But it’s too late now. They’re still looking. I'm officially involved.
“Because if you say Ginger,” I continue, turning in my seat to face them, “I immediately don’t trust your decision-making skills.”
Mason narrows his eyes. “That’s a bold statement from someone who couldn’t decide which pastry she wanted.”
“She’s right, though,” says Colt.
“Unbelievable,” Mason mutters. “So who would you choose then, bun thief?”
I tilt my head, considering them. “Sporty. Obviously.”
Colt nods, reaching for his take-out coffee. “Correct.”
“Ginger’s the best,” Mason fires back. “End of discussion.”
Colt snorts. “You're only saying that because Frankie’s a redhead.”
“I support my girlfriend’s interests.”
“Ginger also left,” I point out, taking another sip of my coffee.
That stalls Mason for half a second, a small crease forming between his brows.
“…I don’t like that you’ve made sense.”
“She’s got you there,” Colt cuts in, amused. “You can’t build a hiring process around someone who bailed mid-career.”
“I hate this,” Mason says, shaking his head. “I really hate this.”
I glance past them, my eyes landing back on the grumpy one. Evan.
“You’re staying out of it?” I ask him.
“I’m here for coffee.”
“But this is all for you, Ev!” Mason’s palms land playfully on Evan’s shoulders, massaging them. “You need all the help you can get with this questionnaire.”
I frown slightly. “Questionnaire for what?”
“His daughter,” Colt says, jerking his thumb toward Evan. “He needs a new nanny.”
“Oh,” I say, glancing back at him. “Well, that’s actually really important, then.”
Evan shifts slightly, like he’s about to shut this absurd conversation down, but I beat him to it.
“For what it’s worth,” I add, “Sporty still makes the most sense. She’s reliable and consistent, and probably doesn’t panic when things go sideways. That feels like a solid trait for someone you’re trusting with a small human.”
Evan’s honey gaze flicks back to me, sharper than before.
“You work with kids?” he asks.
“Not officially, just the odd babysitting gig when I was younger,” I admit. “But I like them and they like me, which feels like a decent starting point.”
“That’s a low bar.”
“Wow. Charming.”
“He’s impossible,” Colt mutters into his coffee. “Don’t take it personally.”
“Is this a firefighter thing?” I ask, glancing back at Evan. “Or just a you thing?”
“Just me.”
“Good,” I say with a firm nod. “I’d hate to think this is standard issue.”
That earns a flicker of a smile from Evan, and for some reason, my insides feel warm for an entirely different reason than the coffee in my hand.
He studies me for a beat.
“You’re new.”
I clear my throat. “Is that your professional assessment?”
“Haven’t seen you before, is all,” he says.
“True,” I reply. “I’d remember this level of interrogation.”
Mason grins like he’s just been handed front row tickets. There’s a faint shift at the corner of Evan’s mouth, but it disappears as quickly as it arrived.